had no more than that to do at eleven
o'clock of a Tuesday forenoon. Then Miss Sichliffe suddenly lumbered
through a French window in clumsy haste, her brows contracted against
the light.

'Well?' she said, delivering the word like a spear-thrust, with the full
weight of a body behind it.

'I've brought Harvey back at last,' I replied. 'Here he is.'

But it was at me she looked, not at the dog who had cast himself at her
feet--looked as though she would have fished my soul out of my breast on
the instant.

'Wha--what did you think of him? What did _you_ make of him?' she
panted. I was too taken aback for the moment to reply. Her voice broke
as she stooped to the dog at her knees. 'O Harvey, Harvey! You utterly
worthless old devil!' she cried, and the dog cringed and abased himself
in servility that one could scarcely bear to look upon. I made to go.

'Oh, but please, you mustn't!' She tugged at the car's side. 'Wouldn't
you like some flowers or some orchids? We've really splendid orchids,
and'--she clasped her hands--'there are Japanese goldfish--real
Japanese goldfish, with four tails. If you don't care for 'em, perhaps
your friends or somebody--oh, please!'

Harvey had recovered himself, and I realised that this woman beyond the
decencies was fawning on me as the dog had fawned on her.

'Certainly,' I said, ashamed to meet her eye. 'I'm lunching at
Mittleham, but--'

'There's plenty of time,' she entreated. 'What do _you_ think of
Harvey?'

'He's a queer beast,' I said, getting out. 'He does nothing but stare at
me.'

'Does he stare at you all the time he's with you?'

'Always. He's doing it now. Look!'

We had halted. Harvey had sat down, and was staring from one to the
other with a weaving motion of the head.

'He'll do that all day,' I said. 'What is it, Harvey?'

'Yes, what _is_ it, Harvey?' she echoed. The dog's throat twitched, his
body stiffened and shook as though he were going to have a fit. Then he
came back with a visible wrench to his unwinking watch.

'Always so?' she whispered.

'Always,' I replied, and told her something of his life with me. She
nodded once or twice, and in the end led me into the house.

There were unaging pitch-pine doors of Gothic design in it; there were
inlaid marble mantel-pieces and cut-steel fenders; there were stupendous
wall-papers, and octagonal, medallioned Wedgwood what-nots, and
black-and-gilt Austrian images holding candelabra, with every other
ref